


The Idea Of Duty

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Authority Figures, Consent Issues, Corporal Punishment, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has failed to live up to his task. Mycroft gives him a chance to redeem himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Idea Of Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to the wonderful [kholly](kholly.livejournal.com) for her wonderful beta work!
> 
> Contains: **dub-con/strong consent issues, corporal punishment**

"You've disappointed me."

His voice. God, but his voice. So cold, so cutting, so deeply, _deeply_ frightening. John feels like he can't breathe, can't move as he stares straight ahead. Nothing, no terrorists, no snipers, no bomb threats, absolutely _nothing_ he has faced in his life has ever been as terrifying as this voice, steeled with cold fury.

"You had one task, John. Only one. What was that task?"

He knows he should answer. Has to answer. Rationally, he _knows_ , but his mouth and vocal cords refuse to obey him. Momentarily, he is frozen with fear.

"I said: what is your task, John Watson? _Answer_!"

The last word cuts right through whatever stress-induced rigour his body has adapted and John's mouth finally snaps open.

"Protect Sherlock Holmes, sir," he replies, voice shaky.

A dry laugh from his left. Without looking, John knows it isn't amusement, not in the slightest.

"Is that all you're capable of? You sound like a frightened boy. You didn't get this position for scaring easily, John. Now, repeat your answer in a manner appropriate for your station, or I _swear_ you will not live through the consequences."

Breathing deep, John straightens up. He can do this, he has to.

"My task was and is to protect Sherlock Holmes," he repeats, voice steadying as his lips finally form the familiar words. "I will fear no harm to myself and will do everything in and beyond my abilities to protect my charge. There is no excuse to leave him vulnerable at any point in time. I will not sleep, not rest, unless I know him safe and secure. My own well-being and safety is irrelevant and entirely inferior to that of Sherlock Holmes."

John's mouth snaps shut as soon as he finishes, still staring right ahead. For a few moments, there is complete silence in the basement. Then, John can hear movements, calm and precise steps, expensive leather on cold concrete.

The face of Mycroft Holmes, eyes cold and hard, appears in John's field of vision.

"So you haven't forgotten," he says and John needs utmost control not to shiver, not to flinch as he is being observed. "You haven't forgotten, and yet - and _yet_ \- my brother has been shot. Tell me, John, what are _your_ injuries?"

John swallows.

"I have none, sir."

" _Ah._ "

John didn't know that a mere syllable, a mere noise like that could sound so profoundly terrifying. John can hear horrifying consequences, painful punishments, a death sentence in this one little sound.

The silence that follows is thick and full of tension. A lesser man might have started pleading and crying, but John prides himself in his resolutely dry eyes and silent acceptance.

He is scared, _of course_ he is, but he knows he has made a mistake, no, has _failed_. Utterly. Whatever Mr Holmes has planned for him now - John deserves it.

Only Sherlock Holmes' death could have been a greater disaster. John knows he wouldn't be breathing right now had his charge's wound been fatal.

"It is gratifying to see that you understand your failure, John. I am sure I don't have to tell you that I would not be here talking to you if I weren't generous enough to give you the chance to redeem yourself."

John nods sharply, only once.

"Do express your gratitude."

"Thank you, sir," John replies at once.

He _is_ grateful. He doesn't deserve a second chance, not really. If he is honest with himself he doesn't understand why Mr Holmes would offer one at all.

But he shouldn't question it. Will not question it. If Mr Holmes feels like there is some worth in him left, if he feels that John can still be of use, he will accept the assessment of his betters.

Mycroft Holmes smiles neatly.

"I have always valued your unfaltering faith and loyalty, John," he says, perfectly aware of John's thoughts, just as always. "I have not given up on you yet."

A pause.

" _Strip._ "

And now, John is in his element. Clear orders, he can follow almost effortlessly. He has always been willing to please and succeed.

He removes his clothes in sure, even movements, first sliding off his shoes and socks, then peeling off the jumper, the shirt, the pair of jeans. It's nothing but a disguise of course, enough perhaps to fool even the most professional killers and criminals out there in believing him to be harmless.

Dr John Watson; ex-army, sure, but not a force to reckon with, not a killer and bodyguard, trained to serve a higher purpose ever since he joined the army and showed his potential.

John folds his clothes neatly, bends over to place them next to him on the cold floor in military precision.

When he straightens up again, he feels the coldness of the concrete floor seep through the sole of his feet, the biting air of the surrounding basement against his bare chest.

He doesn't shiver.

"This is as much a punishment as it is a lesson," Mr Holmes explains, stepping closer.

The fingertips of his right hand brush lightly over John's pectorals, probing and assessing as they make their way upwards, passing his chest, pressing briefly into John's carotid artery before they firmly curl around John's chin.

"Don't disappoint me twice in one day," Mr Holmes whispers and leans in for a kiss.

There's no heat, no passion, no punishing hardness in it. The kiss is almost nothing, merely a peck, like a tender token of affection a mother might give to her children. A promise that John can endure this if he sets his mind to it.

It's an act of kindness John would never have expected and suddenly, he feels a harsh sort of resolve forming in his chest.

He will do this. He will go through this punishment and come out of it a better person, somebody once more worthy of the honour that is serving the Holmes family.

"Good," Mr Holmes whispers and pulls back. "Hands and knees."

John drops to the floor at once, fingers splaying to steady himself, head raised to stare right ahead until he gets different orders.

"Crawl to the locker opposite of you," are his instructions. "Open it and fetch the wooden paddle, but _don't_ use hands or feet for it."

John obeys at once, crawling past his clothes, past Mr Holmes and towards the designated wall.

The floor is cold and rough against his skin as he makes his way through the basement Mr Holmes has chosen for their meeting, but John refuses to shiver until he absolutely must.

The locker is maybe 50 feet away and John makes his way there quickly. He assesses the locker for a second. It is not locked, but closed. There is no mechanism to hold the door in place beyond it catching in the rim of the locker. In between, there's a small space in which to slide your fingers. One has to use nothing but a bit of force to open it.

John mustn't use his fingers or toes, though, and the space is too small for his nose or chin to catch. There is only one other way to open the door.

Crawling closer, John opens his mouth and catches the edge of the door between his lips and his tongue.

It is hard work. The door isn't too heavy, but it's a tad stuck and John has to rise on his knees for a bit, testing and probing along the edge until he finds the spot that gives in.

He drops back onto his hands when the door is ajar and butts it open with his head. The paddle is the only item in the locker. The top of the paddle is sporting several holes as to increase the pain of the impact.

John doesn’t linger on the thought, doesn’t hesitate. He uses teeth and mouth to catch the handle and draws it from the locker, pausing briefly to close the door by leaning against it before dragging the paddle back to where Mr Holmes is still standing.

He’s been watching, of course, making sure John is following the instructions properly. John wonders if this is why Mr Holmes has spoken of a lesson - making John find creative solutions to unusual problems.

Undoubtedly, though, there’s going to be much more to learn.

“Give it here,” Mr Holmes orders when John comes to stop by his feet and John has to lift the paddle all the way up to Mr Holmes’ waiting hand, awkwardly turning his head to offer him a piece of the handle.

Once he is relieved of his burden, John goes back to his original posture - hands and knees, eyes straight ahead.

“How many strikes would make up for your failure, John?” Mr Holmes asks, voice all business.

John gives the only answer he can give in such a situation.

“As many as you feel I deserve, sir.”

Mr Holmes hums.

“A good answer.”

He pauses. John tries not to wonder about just how many strikes Mr Holmes might plan to administer.

“But not the right one. Me deciding wouldn’t be a lesson to you. No, John. _You_ will decide how many strikes are appropriate. You will count each and every single one out loud and I will not stop until you think you have had enough and made up for your mistake. Is that clear?”

John’s eyes have widened with dread, but he manages a clear, “Yes, sir.”

He understands the point behind this, of course he does. Mr Holmes deciding on the amount of punishment would remove the responsibility from John, when the only way he will ever be able to redeem himself is to _take_ responsibility for his actions, his mistakes.

The only way he can do this, the only way he can prove that he is utterly devoted to his task, is to punish himself. He needs to prove that his own health, his own well-being means absolutely nothing to him unless it is vital to the survival of his charge.

“Let’s begin,” Mr Holmes announces, cutting right through John’s wired thoughts. “Elbows flat on the floor, John, arse up. Now.”

John obeys almost automatically, lowering his upper body towards the floor and presenting his backside, ready to be struck.

The first blow comes with no warning and takes the air right out of John. He nearly forgets to choke out, “One, sir.” before another one follows.

The first twenty are manageable. His skin and flesh feel flushed, the pain prickles fresh and sharply through his skin, but John has had worse. Much worse.

At fifty, John cannot bite back scattered harsh sobs, his arms and legs hurting from the strain of keeping himself up and steady and his back straight. He doesn’t lose count.

At eighty, tears are rolling steadily down his face.

“Eighty-one, sir”, he sobs.

He’s beyond localised pain by now. His whole body seems to be shaking and aching, screaming at the world to make it stop, but John can’t have that, even as another bruising blow slaps against his abused buttocks, making him sway.

As much as his body is hurting, his head keeps telling him that it’s not enough. Sherlock Holmes could be dead. Sherlock Holmes could be _dead_ , not just injured, not just shot, _but dead_.

John deserves all the pain in the world.

When the next blow doesn’t come, John realises through the haze of pain that he forgot to count.

“Sorry,” he manages. “Eighty-two, sir. Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Do you think I should stop?” Mr Holmes asks, sounding out of breath but no less authoritative.

“ _No._ No, please continue, sir,” John pleads, voice rough, and his next sob is more relief than pain when strike eighty-tree burns on his skin.

A hundred comes and goes, and John starts to feel sick. His stomach is churning and his head feels woozy, but John still feels guilty.

More. He needs more. It still doesn’t feel right, his failure burning before his eyes, but John has started to lose track of the numbers. He is sure he’s miscounted a few times by now, and the snot clogging his nose makes it harder and harder to articulate anything beyond whimpers of pain.

“Please,” he eventually whispers, causing Mr Holmes to pause the punishment once more.

“Are we done?” he asks.

He sounds more exhausted now, the punishment undoubtedly hard on his arms, and John realises just what high an _honour_ it is that Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes _himself_ , is seeing to it that John can redeem itself.

The thought alone makes him whimper again, but he needs to voice this, needs to get his act together for just a few more words.

“Just... don’t stop, sir,” he chokes. “If... I can’t count and... I can’t speak... don’t stop. Keep going... until I pass out... until I fall over... _please_ , sir.”

Maybe that will be enough. Maybe fainting, the possibility of choking on his pain will be enough to take away the burn of failure in his chest.

The next thing he knows is not another blow, though. It’s the hollow sound of the paddle falling onto concrete and the feeling of very soft fabric against his face, rubbing away the worst of the mess of snot and tears.

“I had hoped you’d get there,” Mr Holmes is saying, voice all business where his touch is almost tender.. “I do know why you’ve always been my favourite, John. Good. Quite good.”

John brain has a hard time catching up.

“Sir?” he murmurs, confused and aching and guilty, so _so_ guilty.

“Get up, John. Clean up your face.”

The punishment... is over then? John doesn’t quite understand why, but knows not to question but obey.

Very, very carefully he picks himself up, whimpering as his calves brush against his abused flesh.

He sways as he gets to his feet, close to passing out until Mr Holmes presses what must be an old-fashioned handkerchief into his hand, grounding him.

“Don’t faint on me now, John. Prove your strength. Prove your worthiness.”

Breathing heavily, John blindly raises the piece of cloth and starts to clean his face, which proves difficult with his nose still running. Eventually, he feels somewhat presentable and lowers his hand, unsure what to do next, but forcing himself to stand straight, even through the steadily throbbing pain and shaking of his muscles.

“Now,” Mr Holmes says and John manages to look straight ahead again. “Do you need me to tell you why your punishment is over?”

“Yes, sir,” John replies, struggling to control his voice. He doesn’t feel forgiven, doesn’t feel redeemed.

How could mere pain make up for failing to live up to his task?

Mr Holmes clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“You made it clear that you were willing to redeem yourself, willing to accept pain to a point where it would seriously threaten your own health. You showed that your former failure was not related to your motivation. You are forgiven - just this once.”

Mr Holmes steps closer again, very much like when he had kissed John, but this time, his fingers brush cruelly over John’s swelling backside. New tears make their way down John’s face.

“Do try and control yourself, John,” Mr Holmes says, displeased. “This isn’t like you.”

John swallows desperately, nods.

“I want to make one thing _perfectly_ clear to you, John,” Mr Holmes continues. “ _This_ was a one-time chance. Another failure will not be forgiven, no matter how remorseful you are. Is that clear?”

Briefly closing his eyes to fight off another wave of tears, John nods as firmly as he can manage.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Yes. Of course,” Mr Holmes says, and there is something in his voice that makes John listen very, very carefully. “You have yet to pay me back for my generosity.”

And _now_ , John understands. _Now_ , he realises why the burn of guilt hasn’t ebbed away yet.

He might be forgiven - he _is_ forgiven - but the punishment, all this - it’s not over yet. Not fully.

John doesn’t need any further instructions. John knows exactly what kind of thanks Mr Holmes prefers.

Bracing himself, John slowly sinks back onto his knees, putting his full weight on his shins instead of sinking back onto his backside.

“Sir,” he says, sending a brief, pleading glance upwards. “Sir, may I suck your cock?”

“You may.”

From then on, it’s easy. Using the handkerchief, John cleans his face one more time before abandoning the cloth, freeing both his hands.

“May I use my hands, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

Reverently, John brushes his fingers over Mr Holmes’ crotch, seeking out the buttons and opening the fly, careful to keep the topmost button closed.

Gently, he slips his hand inside Mr Holmes’ trousers, prodding until he can find the opening in his underwear, pass the fabric and curl his fingers around Mr Holmes’ cock, pulling it out and in the open.

Briefly brushing his closed mouth over the delicate flesh, caressing the soft skin, John finally takes the glans into his mouth.

Mr Holmes’ hand comes to cup the back of his head almost immediately, fingers curling tightly into his hair, strictly pushing John close to his crotch, making him swallow the whole length.

John can feel Mr Holmes’ cock lengthen in his mouth, can feel him grow harder and more erect with each movement of John’s head. John eagerly uses his tongue, flicking and brushing it against the sliding cock in his mouth, hoping to offer as much stimulation as possible.

There is nothing shameful about this. John knows what he owes Mr Holmes, that he ought to show his gratitude and letting Mr Holmes use John’s mouth for his pleasure is the least John can do.

It feels... _right_ and _redeeming_ when Mr Holmes eventually abandons any kind of leniency, simply fucks John’s mouth, cockhead brushing against the back of John’s throat, repeatedly triggering his gag reflex.

The taste of semen on his tongue really drives it home - he’s forgiven. The worst failure of his life, and John is forgiven.

John takes utmost care to clean Mr Holmes’ cock when his hand drops from John’s head, lapping up surplus saliva and spilled semen before setting Mr Holmes back to rights.

God, he’s grateful. So, so grateful. How he has deserved this, John is unable to understand.

“Thank you, sir,” he utters in reverence, re-buttoning Mr Holmes’ fly.

“Get up.”

John does so, knees protesting, once more completely aware of the throbbing pain in his backside. It will be a steady reminder of his punishment for the next days, if not weeks.

The thought feels _right_.

“What have you learned today?” Mr Holmes demands.

John hesitates only briefly before stating:

“I have been reminded of my position and duties, sir. I have been given a second chance, a chance to make up for my failure and am honestly grateful for your generosity, sir. I will strive not to disappoint you again. Failing again to live up to my task is not an option.”

Mr Holmes looks pleased.

“Quite right,” he replies.

Once more, he steps right into John’s personal space and, seconds later, digs his fingers into the bruised flesh of John’s arse. John makes sure not to make a single noise, although the flaring pain almost makes him sway again.

“Now, I want you to redress, go to the hospital and resume your duties by my brother’s side. Additionally, your backside is not to be treated. I want you to sit at any given opportunity. The pain shall remind you _never_ to fail at your task again. Is that understood?”

Mr Holmes’ fingers curl, digging in even further, and John almost gasps his reply.

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Holmes fingers linger briefly, sending waves and waves of pain through John’s body, making him shake and shiver before finally releasing him.

“Dismissed.”


End file.
